


Trouble in the Balkans

by UnderTheFridge



Series: My Ex Is On Fire [4]
Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, Power (TV)
Genre: ...sort of?, And The Dog - Freeform, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Organized Crime, Shower Sex, well nearly until Milan ruins it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 05:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11007342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderTheFridge/pseuds/UnderTheFridge
Summary: Milan's trip to Florida didn't go well.But he won't let a simple bullet-wound stand in the way of strengthening his 'business partnership' with a certain weapons dealer.(Even if he nearly ends up ruining it....)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (I'm aware that neither of them are, strictly speaking, from the Balkan region, but all of these titles are going to be puns of varying terrible-ness and this was too good/bad to pass up.)

Vladimir follows the grain of the tabletop with a finger, tracing the routes of his grapevine. He claims to be above rumour and speculation, and also gossips like a grandmother.

“So I heard it, through Sofia, this way, and she heard it through the man who works in -.”

“I don’t care how you heard it,” Petar snaps. He’s on edge and letting it show. Vladimir doesn’t look too offended. The meditation is doing wonders for his temper - that and an ongoing feud, which gives him a steady stream of captives to mutilate in new and interesting ways.

“But you will tell me the truth now?”

“Yes.” He gets up for more tea, first, and to listen for movement from next door. Everything is silent for now. Mischa paces, sniffing at the floor, knowing that something is wrong. Petar pushes a cup over to Vladimir and sighs. “The business in Florida was raided. They were after small fry, they didn’t know who was there. Everybody got away without being identified - but some junior cops opened fire.”

“Fucking rookies,” Vladimir says, obviously testing out the expression. He likes to expand his vocabulary as well as his mind.

“A few of ours were hit in the confusion.” He nods towards the door. “And then he fell down the stairs. Getting away.”

“He is not well?” Vladimir lowers his voice, as if uttering the words is heresy in itself.

“He was shot,” Petar admits. “Not serious, but - you will see. Soon.”

“He is walking?”

“He refuses to stay in bed.” And, as if on cue, the door opens. Mischa gives a friendly huff and goes back to pacing, tail wagging. “I told you. Go and rest.”

Milan looks pale and bruised, limping heavily. He seems to be staying upright through sheer indignation. “No.”

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine. They almost missed me.”

“Except for the part where they didn’t.”

“I’ll survive.” He sits on the edge of the table and stretches out his leg, his face taut with pain. Nothing short of a bullet-wound will get a reaction out of him; Petar knows this much. It’s true, more or less, for all of them. “Anyway, I have to go out. The meeting I told you about.”

“Your R-” Petar starts, before considering that this isn’t the time to tease him about his Russian ‘boyfriend’. Certainly not with an oblivious Vladimir in the room. “The new one. Call him, rearrange it. You can’t go out, not like that.”

“ _ You are not my mother _ ,” Milan says flatly.

“I’m telling you not to go.”

“And I’m telling you that I’m going. Try and stop me.”

“I won’t. But the way you are now, I could knock you over with a toothpick.”

“Then it’s good that you don’t have any.”


	2. Chapter 2

His eyes are wandering, taking in the room without seeing it. Every time he moves, a tension appears in his shoulders that he can’t quite hide. His right foot is propped carefully against the rug - the casual posture is a lie. His every breath at this point must be accompanied by a low background murmur of pain, rising to a wail whenever he tries anything too rash (standing up, perhaps, or walking).

“I’m glad you’re here,” Anatoli says, as warmly as he can manage. Rain batters the window. Arriving on foot may have seemed like a good idea until the storm descended. “I didn’t expect it, under the circumstances.”

“Circumstances?”

He is too tired to play the game properly; this much is obvious.

“I hear you have problems in Miami.”

“There’s no problem,” Milan says lightly, shaking his head. “It was unlucky - but nobody was caught. They achieved nothing. Except wasting ammunition.”

“Their law enforcement will never be short of ammunition. Believe me.”

It takes Milan a moment to catch up and react - which might as well be an eternity.

“Apparently they used most of it on you,” Anatoli continues, purely to provoke him.

“I do not know where you heard this,” Milan says, sounding worried without his usual assurance to overlay it. “It wasn’t a shootout. They come in the front door, we go out of the back. Yes, there were a few… near misses. On our side. But very minor, all things considered.” He shrugs. “ _ So you see _ .” The last isn’t in English, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“I see.” It’s getting late; one of them or the other should declare their meeting over. Milan must be contemplating what lies outside. The wind howls past the building, rain-soaked darkness blocked by thick curtains. The room is warm and softly lit, and as safe as reasonably possible.

Anatoli waits and watches him think, watches the exhaustion settle heavy on him while his mind isn’t guarding his body.

“Do you want to stay?”

There’s a short silence as Milan refocuses and assembles his expression. “Oh, I shouldn’t.”

“I will be a bad host, letting you out into this weather.”

“Well, I have much to get back to. Such an operation doesn’t run itself.” He sits up, stiff and awkward.

“Alright. It’s a shame - I hoped to talk to you more. We still hardly know each other, don’t you think?” Not that that matters. But he wonders if the personal angle will be more persuasive.

“We don’t. And I would love to stay, but….”

“Are you sure I cannot convince you?” Anatoli deliberately stretches out a leg, almost bringing their feet into contact. It’s verging on flirtatious, by his standards - Milan should find it amusing. He smiles as expected, but flinches away. His right shin hits the table and he bites back a sound.

He knows exactly how vulnerable he is.

“It’s terrible outside…” he says, almost to himself. This will be his excuse.

“It is,” Anatoli agrees, and doesn’t persuade him any further.


	3. Chapter 3

This is the polar opposite of the last time they were together. For a start, they’ve made it to the bed (rather than the wall, the shower, or the floor). Anatoli turns off his light, finally letting darkness take over, and sinks under the covers. It’s peaceful even though there’s company; Milan is awake - his eyes flicker open occasionally to stare at the ceiling - but he’s quiet and still enough for it to be acceptable. Those who try to shuffle around, poke and prod or make conversation, always get shown the door.

They both know what will help, aside from the painkillers. It’s a question of whether Milan will  _ let _ him help. He rests his hand on warm skin and thinks it will be pushed away, the softness of touch unbearable, but it isn’t. When they fall asleep, they’re dangerously close to something like an embrace.

 

\--

 

“I should go,” is the first thing he says in the morning, softly and sleepily, clearly in no condition to move just yet. His head is resting almost entirely on Anatoli’s shoulder, and it would be easy to curl a hand around and stroke his hair. But not necessary.

“You need to rest. You were turning all night.” This isn’t something he can refute - if he was awake, then they both were, and if he was asleep, then he was unaware of it. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing.” 

“Please. You are my guest.”

“Mm.” To decline might seem rude, but to accept would place him at the mercy of someone he doesn’t fully trust. Here they are, lying side by side undressed and half-asleep, but they don’t quite have faith in each other. Not yet.

Anatoli arranges food for both of them, then settles the blankets back in place, deliberately avoiding Milan’s injured leg.

“I know what happened in Miami.”

“I see.” Milan is almost sitting upright. In the light of day he looks better rested, but still tired and bruised from where he fell. “You have your own sources….”

“I do. You were taken by surprise.”

“We were.” He frowns. “But, so were they. They did not plan correctly, so we all escaped. They did not make a  _ single _ arrest from it. They have no names, no faces; a disaster for them - not so for us.”

“You count this as success?”

“We met. We talked. Everybody got away - yes, it was successful. You’re referring to this,” he gestures at his wounds, “but this… is nothing. I know it may not  _ look _ like nothing, but really - it is the price we pay for progress.”

 

\--

 

For someone so reluctant to stay, Milan manages to hang around extremely well. He won’t even let his host shower in peace.

“You are feeling better?” Anatoli looks around as soon as he hears movement in the room. Too many men like them have been caught with their backs turned.

“A lot,” Milan says, bullying his way under the water and getting far closer than decorum should allow. Anatoli turns him deftly and presses him to the cold tiles face first, moving in behind.

“Then you won’t mind….”

“Oh, go away.” He puts up a token resistance; a fight in such close quarters would be fatal. “You’d do this to an injured man?”

“Make up your mind: are you hurt or not?”

Milan just smirks and squirms so they’re at least face to face. Water streams over and around them, but not between; there’s no space. He holds up the soap, directing attention to it with a nod - then drops it, deliberately.

Anatoli just scowls at him.

“Well, I can’t get it.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Why? I’m sure you’re used to it by n-” he doesn’t get to finish the sentence before a hand grabs his hair. This, then, is too far.

“You  _ dare _ .” It’s a low growl, right in his face. “Tell me why I shouldn’t throw you out.”

“This is a weak spot for you, hm?” They’re crowding each other, nails digging into skin, intimacy turned to threat. It hurts over his bruises. “Now I know this.”

“And this is why I have to let you stay?”

“Can you afford not to?”

He is released and suddenly alone. Left to sigh, and bend slowly and painfully to pick up the soap himself.

Nothing is said when he collects his things and leaves.


	4. Chapter 4

“You said  what ?”

“Nothing - I was joking.”

Petar slams the phone on the table. Mischa looks up from the bone she’s chewing.

“Call him. And apologise.”

“There is nothing to apologise for,” but he won’t meet Petar’s eyes. “We still have a deal. We still have weapons.”

“For how long?” Petar stubs out his cigarette, and immediately lights another. “How long before he decides we’re not worth his time, if this is how you treat him?”

Milan rubs his forehead. “You are being dramatic.”

“No, I am being realistic. You shouldn’t have fucked him.”

“ Please . I’ll be the judge of that.”

“And you  definitely shouldn’t be insulting him like this. What are you doing, starting a war? With an arms dealer? With the entire Russian mafia?”

“If I was going to start a war, you would know it by now. Stop worrying, Petar. Yes, I will call him - but you will see, it’s fine.”

He still picks up the phone as if it’s a spider that he’s removing from the bath. Petar looks about to walk away, but stays when he lays the phone back down and props his elbows on the table, leaning over it as the call connects.

“ _ On speaker? Do you think that’s _ -?”

“Shh.”

“What do you want?” comes the immediate response.

“I want to say sorry.”

“For what?”

“You know….”

There’s a soft, deadly silence. He wants it out loud. Milan sighs quietly.

“For turning up, accepting your hospitality, sharing your bed… and then implying you were a little bitch who can’t shower in safety. Ok?”

The silence is a little more accommodating this time.

“Look, I’m sorry. I know we still have our arrangement, but… it takes more than just business to make a partnership, doesn’t it? If we’re unpleasant to each other, what’s to stop us taking it too far? I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding.”

“Alright.”

“I won’t do it again. I promise.”

Often, when the other party can’t see, there is the slightest curl to his lip as he makes assurances, puts out promises, layers on the charm. That’s absent today, Petar notices. He actually means it. Either because Knyazev could destroy them in a heartbeat - starting a mafia feud, yes, but still easy - or because his heart is somehow moved by this man.

Probably the former. Petar doesn’t entirely believe that Milan has a heart.

 

\--

 

Anatoli takes his phone back from the polished surface of the desk.

“ _ You see, I told you. _ He does not want to jeopardise this.”

“Do you mean the business, or he wants you to fuck him?”

“ _ Both _ ?” He challenges her with his eyes. Sasha scuffs the point of her heel on the thick carpet, making fuzzy scars.

“And you will carry on with both yourself,  _ yes? _ ”

“Why? Are you volunteering to take over? Which one? He would do either with you.”

“Never.” She shakes her head, long earrings glinting. “He is happy with you.”

“You think I am making a mistake.”

“No,” she says, unconvincingly. “But if…  _ I am worried you or he will see too much in it, and that difference will cause problems. _ ”

“I think you will be married,” Ivanka says, and turns a page of her  _ Vogue _ . Anatoli points a warning finger at her, which she ignores. “I will choose flowers. He will have white dress.”

Sasha starts laughing at that, and doesn’t stop for quite a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember the two girls we see flanking Knyazev in the underground fight club: the ones in tiny leopard-print dresses with eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man, who are onscreen for about 3 seconds?  
> Meet Sasha (left of screen) and Ivanka (right) - not their original names, naturally - two friends from Anatoli's home town who, faced with only a life of unemployment, alcoholism and cheap tracksuits, decided to join him and his criminal enterprise. They function as his bffs, wing(wo)men, advisors, fashion critics, disposable income disposers, business partners (Ivanka is studying law and Sasha is a mean accountant), and occasional bodyguards.  
> Do not fuck with them.  
> (If you do, Anatoli will be left holding about $20k worth of identical Chanel handbags while they kick the crap out of you, in heels.)


End file.
